Full Tank

I had been driving the lovely Italian woman, Clara, to work for several months. In her mid-thirties, she had thick black hair, a flashing smile, unblemished olive skin, green eyes flecked with brown. Her English was perfect but she had that beautiful Italian way of drawing out her vowels. She was always immaculately and expensively dressed. The car-sharing arrangement had been organised through a company bulletin board. She paid for a share of the petrol and as we worked in different areas of the company, our contact was mainly limited to the rides to and from work - about 45 minutes each way, depending on the traffic.

Our conversation never seemed to drift into the personal, but she was a person of considerable intelligence, well-informed and forthright on a range of topics - social issues, relationships, religion, politics. Few issues had not been covered in the time we had spent driving together.

On this particular evening I waited for Clara as usual in the lobby. She was running late, so I took the lift down to the car park and drove up to the visitor's parking space in front of the building. We had an arrangement that I would wait fifteen minutes after our scheduled meeting time. She held an important position in the company and was often kept late in meetings or with urgent, last-minute tasks. I was flexible about the arrangement and normally waited half an hour. If she was delayed later than that, the company was usually happy to pay her taxi fare home.

I was about to leave when she came through the glass doors toward me, moving quickly and awkwardly in her heels. She tumbled into the passenger seat out of breath. Her expensive perfume filled the air, not quite masking the sharper, feminine perfume that women exude when tense.

"Sorry," she gasped. "I've been trapped in a meeting with some major clients since one. It was productive, but intense. Being the account manager I was in the middle of it. It was so full on, I didn't have the opportunity to take a break and call you to tell you not to wait. You're very sweet to have waited this long."

Sweet - a slightly personal touch that made my heart beat a little faster. I was more than a little smitten with Carla, but somehow the opportunity never arose, or I was too slow-witted to work out how to make it arise, to take our relationship beyond the purely impersonal.

Carla had settled into her seat for the drive. It was peak-hour and most of our drive was along a multilane freeway with bumper-to-bumper traffic. The congestion was even worse than usual. The traffic crawled, but the air-conditioning kept the car nicely chilled. Normally, I didn't have music or the radio on. Carla was generally very talkative - I think it was her way of unwinding. Listening to her was one of my pleasures of the day - the time flew while I was with her.

But today she was quiet, and wore a slight frown. She was not relaxed. I thought back to what she had said, about not having time to take a break. Not even time for a toilet break, perhaps.

At the thought of that, my breathing became a little shallower and faster. At this point, I need to make a confession. I have a thing about women and pee - I've had it for as long as I can remember. I don't go in for self-analysis and I've never really bothered about the origins of this special interest. It's never really intruded into my sexual relationships, but it certainly dominates my fantasies, of which I have many.

I glanced over at her legs. Her grey, light wool skirt came half-way down her thighs. She had on grey shaded stockings and under them I could see the muscles clenching. Her feet were making small rocking motions, heel to toe and back again. She was looking ahead at the traffic in a fixed fashion, as if willing it to go faster. I reached over to the controls and turned the air conditioning down. She gave me an embarrassed smile.

"Thanks, I'm afraid I rather badly need the ladies' room and the cold air doesn't help. I went through the afternoon without a break. I've got a cast-iron bladder and in any case I was too focussed to adjourn the meeting. I should have used the ladies' in the lobby on the way out, but I could see you getting ready to drive off so I decided to put it off.

"I'm afraid it was a bad miscalculation," she said ruefully.

The fidgetting was getting worse now, she was visibly rocking her knees and squeezing them together, clenching and unclenching her thighs. I couldn't believe what was happening; I was driving this beautiful, elegant woman and she was struggling not to piss in her panties. It was like one of my fantasies come to life.

But I had too much liking and admiration for her to want to see her distressed or humiliated.

"There's a Macdonald's up ahead. I'll have to try and get into the left lane and take the turn-off. It'll take about fifteen minutes - do you think you can wait that long?" "To be honest, I'm very uncomfortable. I'm almost desperate enough to jump out of the car and do it in the road." That lightened the mood momentarily - she started to laugh at the idea, then she gave a sharp intake of breath and stopped. "Oh God, I nearly lost it then. I'll just have to hold on and hope for the best."

She crossed her legs and rocked her top leg up and down, but that only worked temporarily, for then she uncrossed them and sat with one foot under her. A sheen of sweat formed on her forehead and upper lip. Her jaw worked as if her battle to control her bladder needed all her concentration. She would take a deep intake of breath, hold it, then exhale in a quick burst. Watching this performance, I was hardly in better shape. My heart was pounding and I had to hold the wheel tight to stop my hands from trembling.

She began rocking backward and forward, grinding her crotch into her heel. This seemed to work for a time. Then suddenly she cried out, "Oh Bart. I don't think I can wait any longer. I have to pee. I have to pee right now. I can't wait any longer. I'm going to flood everything." She was furiously rocking back and forth, trying to convince her bladder that this was not the time. Her voice was strangled, and so was mine.

"Quick, slide forward in the seat. You can do it on the floor without wetting your clothes or the seat."

She didn't hesitate. She had her pantyhose and panties around her ankles in a second and no sooner had she thrust her buttocks forward over the edge of the seat than there was a loud hissing sound and the sharp smell of her urine began to fill the car. I tried valiantly to be a gentleman, but succumbed to temptation and looked sideways. There was not a lot of leg-room in the front of the car and she had to part her knees considerably in order to move far enough forward to clear the seat. On full display was one of the most luxuriant bushes I have ever seen on a woman, black and thick like the hair on her head. But her knees were so far apart that even this did not conceal the rest of her treasures - thick sensual outer lips and even the large, thin, pink and moist inner lips, through which a torrent of urine poured.

Her head was thrown back and her mouth was open and I realised she was softly groaning, a long slow groan of pleasure as the intolerable pressure eased. After what seemed an impossible period of time, the stream slowed and subsided. She squeezed out the remaining contents in spurts then looked at me apologetically.

"God, I've made a mess of your car, but I can't begin to tell you how good that feels - the sheer relief. For a moment there I thought I was going to piss in my clothes like a schoolgirl."

Her sex was still thrust forward, fully on display, her elegant Italian leather shoes mired in half an inch of urine. In spite of myself, I couldn't help staring. I had a feeling I was being repaid for the inconvenience she had caused.

We were getting near the turn-off to her apartment now. Finally she sat back in the seat and smoothed down her dress. When we pulled up outside she carefully pulled off her shoes one at a time, handed them to me, and somehow managed to extricate her feet from the sodden panty hose without stepping into the pool of liquid on the floor. She got out of the car and propped herself against it as she deftly pulled on her shoes again. She leant through the window. Her panties and pantyhose were sitting in a sodden heap in a lake of urine on the floor, but that was irrelevant. She was the cool, elegant businesswoman again. She looked me straight in the eye. I had a feeling that she had guessed my little secret and knew exactly what had been going through my mind throughout the whole episode.

"Of course, I'll pay for the cleaning."

Slowly a smile spread across my face.

"You've paid for it already."

I considered washing her panties and panty-hose and returning them to her, but thought better of it. I continued to be smitten with Clara, but in spite of the intense intimacy we had briefly experienced, the car-rides resumed as though nothing had happened. Then, after three months, she was promoted to the company's office in Singapore and they came to an end.

It's a small world, and I have no doubt I will meet her again. She will be as elegant as ever and rungs higher on the corporate ladder. We will exchange smiles and we will both be thinking of the moment, the for her unaccustomed moment when her control slipped and she struggled not to piss herself in my car.